


My Favorite Year

by katedf



Category: Death in Paradise
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-31
Updated: 2013-07-03
Packaged: 2017-12-13 12:05:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/824129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katedf/pseuds/katedf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It has been two years since Richard left Saint Marie. He is working as a detective in London. Work is going well, he is respected at his station, but he is still a loner and doesn’t seem to be able to break out of that mode. Every so often, he hears a remark or a song that sends his mind back to his year on Saint Marie, and he wonders if he had been wrong to accept the transfer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story began as a one-chapter songfic, inspired by the song “My Favorite Year.” And then, as I got other ideas, it grew to be multiple chapters. (The song shows up in chapter 2)

It had become a joke around the station. When the sun came out, they knew Detective Inspector Richard Poole would grab a sandwich at a Pret a Manger and head for a park at lunchtime. For a man who claimed to love a good London drizzle, he was inordinately fond of sunshine. Fortunately for him, London had lots of parks. 

When he’d been assigned to Islington, the detectives at the station were curious. A newcomer was always interesting. They’d heard the stories about the DI who’d been sent to a Caribbean island. Supposedly, he’d had a record-setting clearance rate. So good, in fact, the Met had brought him home, feeling his talents would be put to better use in London. He was rumored to be in line to become a Detective Chief Inspector. So far, he was still DI Poole, and the team were glad to have him.

Richard had been there two years, and nobody knew him very well. He did go out for drinks at the pub on a Friday from time to time. They knew he’d dated a series of women. Only one at a time, mind you. And no one lasted very long. He never said much about them. Too much of a gentleman to kiss and tell was the majority opinion. One rather homophobic DS had suggested that Poole might be gay. But the newest DC, Peggie Davidson, who had a bit of a crush on Poole, said it couldn’t possibly be true. One of her brothers was gay, so she’d know. Peggie was everyone’s kid sister, smart most of the time, but also naïve about some things. So the men let it go at that and didn’t tease her. 

One day, when Richard went out to interview several witnesses—who might turn out to be prime suspects—he asked Peggie to go with him, as some of the witnesses were women. As he navigated through traffic, Richard explained that he would ask the questions, and her job was to watch the witnesses, especially the women.

“I don’t ‘read’ women well. I’ve been told that on numerous occasions, actually.”

“To do with work, or personal—sorry, I shouldn’t have asked that.”

“No, that’s a fair question. I guess I’m somewhat old-fashioned and never want it to be the wife who’s guilty. And yes, women I’ve known have told me that I am utterly clueless. That’s why I appreciate having your point of view when we interview the women.”

“Right. I’ll have my liar antennae on alert.”

“And don’t interrupt. My questions may sound a bit random, but I will be heading somewhere.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m not saying you can’t ask questions. If you think of something, and I don’t get to it, ask when I’m finished. If I forget to invite you to add your questions, then, you know, say ‘pardon me, could I ask’ or something like that.”

“Yes, sir.”

“It isn’t that I doubt your abilities, Peggie. You’re new, and it takes a while to figure out how best to work with someone new. For two detectives to alternate asking questions is tricky. It’s kind of like actors who’ve done a lot of improv together. You know where the other person is heading, even if you aren’t working from a script. I’m not explaining it well. But when it works, it’s fantastic.” 

“Like a good marriage,” said Peggie. Then she cringed inwardly, remembering she was talking to the serially single member of the team. She thought she saw a wistful expression cross his usually impassive face. She didn’t know she wasn’t changing the subject when she asked, “Did you ever have a partner like that?”

“Once, for a year. It was when I was assigned to an island in the Caribbean. I hated so much about that time. It was hot, I mean hellishly hot. Buggy, sandy. Sunny, except for incredible rainstorms where it would come down in buckets. Have you ever been to the Caribbean?” 

“No. You don’t exactly make it sound like paradise.”

“It wasn’t my kind of place at all. But the people were lovely. Best partner I ever had. Best team I ever had. There was this bar … but we don’t have time for that now. Let’s see these witnesses.”

After interviewing the family of the victim, Richard noted the time. 

“Lunchtime! There’s a pub with tables overlooking the canal. Is that all right with you, Peggie?”

“Sounds nice. I love the canal. Have you ever taken one of the boat rides?”

“No. I’ve seen them go by, packed with tourists.”

“My boyfriend took me on a dinner trip for my birthday.”

“That sounds festive.”

“It was. We talked about maybe renting a narrowboat for a vacation.”

“I had a boat,” said Richard. “A dinghy called the _Roast Beef.”_

“That’s a funny name!”

“My team named it. Island humor. My partner’s mother owned a bar. She made a roast beef dinner for me when I first was on the island. I was homesick for all things English. She made pretty good tea, too. My Englishness was a bit of a joke with the team.”

“They made fun of the Chief? We joke amongst ourselves, but we never make fun of the Gov.”

“It was done affectionately. We were a small team, all very close. It’s so different there. I’ve never met people with such a capacity for joy.” Richard shook his head, “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.”

“It’s the little sister thing,” said Peggie. “I’m the newest and the youngest and the only woman DS at the station. And I’m short and freckled, so I seem to be everyone’s kid sister.”

“If you feel you’ve been bullied, or slighted, or treated badly—”

“No! It’s rather sweet, actually.”

“If it ever turns unpleasant in any way, please tell me. Workplace harassment is an ugly thing. I’ve seen it happen, and I don’t ever want to see it again.”

“Thank you. I’ll remember that. And any time you need someone to talk to, little sisters are good listeners.”

“Speaking of listening, tell me what you got out of our interviews this morning.” 

“The biggest thing to me is that the sister-in-law is lying about something. I don’t know what, but I just have a feeling…”

Peggie talked about the witness/suspect, and Richard tried to pay attention. All that talk of the Caribbean had unsettled him. Two years later and ‘I just have a feeling’ made him homesick for Saint Marie, the team, and Camille. He’d stayed in touch for a while. Then the gaps between emails got longer, and eventually he stopped. There was nothing in his life worth telling. He felt pathetic, like he was Dickie Boy again, the man who had no life. 

-o-o-o-o-

Richard had a small flat in a quiet neighborhood. The elderly woman next door fussed over him. When she baked, she would give him cookies. When he had a cold, she would make soup for him. She frequently asked him if he had a girlfriend. Apparently, Mrs. Gregg had an endless supply of available nieces and acquaintances. Once in a while, she would wear him down and he’d agree to a date. 

Mrs. Gregg was right. They were all lovely women. A few were too young for him—he began to wonder if Mrs. Gregg should have her eyeglasses checked. Most were his age, or close enough. They would go on a few dates, then get bored with each other and say “nice knowing you,” and go their separate ways. It was never ugly or nasty. Neither had ever been sufficiently invested emotionally to make a fuss. 

Then Richard met Marcia, the most depressing woman on the planet. She had broken up after a two-year relationship with a man who, despite his promises, was never going to leave his wife. Richard and Marcia had met at a pub. She was drowning her sorrows, and it was the day after his birthday. He had just turned 40. He’d had a nice weekend with his family, lots of presents, some teasing about entering a new decade. And the next day, there he was at his local, sipping a pint—by himself—realizing that he would probably spend his life by himself. Listening to Marcia was depressing, but it helped him see that he wasn’t the most pathetic person alive. Close, but not a champion.

They dated a few times. Marcia made it clear that she was not looking for love and the almost certain heartbreak that would follow. Richard was happy to be a rebound romance. No strings, easy, nothing messy. 

One night, after too much wine, Marcia managed to get Richard to tell her his story. 

“Why are you alone?” she had asked. And Richard told her that he had loved someone he couldn’t have, and he probably would never find somebody that fantastic again. 

“You know what you need?” she slurred. “You need some unlove songs.”

“What’s that?” 

“Sad songs. Like you love someone who doesn’t love you. Or you screwed it up and now you feel sorry for yourself.”

“That doesn’t sound healthy, Marcia. Much too depressing.”

“But they’re beautiful. So sad. But so beautiful. I’ll send you some.” And, despite her inebriated state, Marcia took out her phone and managed to send some sound files to Richard’s email. “Listen to them. They’re great for when you need a good cry.”

“You’ve cried enough for tonight,” said Richard. “Let’s get you home.” He walked Marcia home and said goodnight. 

“I’m sorry I’m so depressing,” she said sadly.

“It’s all right. You have your good cry and a good sleep, and you’ll feel better. Well, you know, after you get over the hangover you’re almost certainly going to have.”

“Goodnight, Richard. Thanks for being such a good shoulder to cry on. Listen to the songs. It helps to know you’re not the only one who ever loved unwisely.”


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, Richard was in a pensive mood. 

“Good lord, Poole,” said DI Kenwood. “Did you dump another one?”

“No, I did not dump anyone. We just, you know, gave up.”

“That’s what you always say. What was wrong with this one?”

“She was depressing. She liked unlove songs.”

“What?” asked Kenwood. “What is an unlove song?.”

“Apparently, it’s about love gone wrong. I love her, but she doesn’t love me, that kind of thing. Marcia had been through a bad breakup. I was rebound and recovery, not love everlasting.” Richard shrugged and picked up a file from his desk.

“I know what an unlove song is,” said Peggie. “It’s about loving and hurting.”

“Isn’t that country-western music?” asked DS Sunata.

“No,” said DS Wythe. “Country music is about the dog dying and the pickup truck breaking down.”

“Hey, I like country!” said Kenwood. “Unlove songs sound girlie. No wonder Davidson knows about them.”

Richard looked up and watched Peggie to see how she handled the taunting. 

“Women know about love,” she said with mock disgust. “We’re much more evolved than men. If it weren’t for women, you lot would still be running around in animal skins, and arguing over which of you had made the biggest flint axe-head. You all should be locked in a room and be made to watch chick flicks until you develop some sensitivity!”

Cries of “Oooh, not that, please miss, not that,” and “Where are the tissues?” were followed by laughter. The door opened and they all fell silent.

“Good morning children. I believe recess is over now. Haven’t you got murders to solve?” said Superintendent William Ross.

“Yes, Gov.”

“Right, sir.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ross nodded his head and walked into his office. Then he smiled. He liked his team. And bringing in Peggie Davidson had been a good move. Every band of merry men should have a Maid Marion. 

Ross looked at his to-do list. He opened the door and shouted, “Poole!”

“Sir? Richard was at the door in seconds.

“Come in, sit down.”

“I apologize for the frivolity this morning—”

“No, no. Don’t tell the team, but I think a little banter is good for the group. I know that you’ve taken wee Davidson under your wing. How is she doing?”

“She’s doing well. Eager to learn, able to put up with the banter. I did worry for her a bit at first. It must be difficult to be the only woman in the midst of a team of men. She has older brothers, so she says she knows how to deal with a room full of Neanderthals.”

“Good, good. The real reason I called you in here is to talk about holiday schedule. The other DIs have had a go at the calendar. You should claim your weeks before I give the DSs their turns.” Ross handed a photocopy of a calendar to Richard. “You can see what’s available. Get back to me on it in a day or two, please.”

“Yes, sir.” 

-o-o-o-o-

Richard stared at the calendar. He hated choosing holiday time. He never had any place in mind to go. He would probably just stay around his flat and read. Everyone else came back with holiday snaps. Richard sometimes wished he could, but he couldn’t summon the energy to bother. Why spend all that money to go to some tropical island and sit in the shade—assuming one could find any—and read?

He looked at a map of Britain on his computer. Romans. Perhaps he might visit at Roman sites. Hadrian’s wall and all that. Carlisle to Wall End, and points in between. 

While mulling that over, Richard clicked on his email. The email from Marcia was still in his inbox. He listened to one of the songs, which was definitely an unlove song. It was a breakup song, very sad about sorting out the bits and pieces as a life together became two separate lives. It was quite lovely, if sad. Excellent word choices in the lyrics, he wondered who had written it.

Richard was about to delete the files, but the idea of yet another solitary holiday had made him feel rather sorry for himself. So he played one more. Three lines in this unlove song seemed to have been written just for him.

> “Now, do I ever cross your mind?  
> Are you memories like mine?  
> Or have they let you go?”

He clicked on “recent maps” and after Carlisle and Corbridge and Haltwhistle, he found Honoré. He played the song again. The line “If we could go back there, would we stay?” made him wonder. Could he go back? Should he? He could find the Honoré police station on the satellite image. How many times had he looked at it? If he followed the road up the hill, he could pick out Camille’s house. The song continued to play.

> “I had to go so far without you,  
>  Now it’s clear,  
>  You were my favorite love.  
>  That was my favorite year.”

It was true. For all that he had complained about the sun and the heat and the sand and the food with eyes, it had been his favorite year. He’d wasted so much of it being insular, hiding out at his bungalow, resisting liming with the team. He chuckled at the thought of liming. He had learned to just hang out with friends. At first, he thought liming had to be an organized activity, like playing Cluedo. Then he began to understand that it was enough to be with friends and just _be._ And now he wished he could go back to Saint Marie, find Camille, and just _be._

Richard dug the calendar out of his briefcase and started making plans. He researched dates and times, and had selected his flight when doubts began to creep in. Two years was a long time. Would she want to see him? Was she even still there? Was her last name still Bordey?

Before he clicked on “Purchase ticket," he did a search for Saint Marie Police. The website was pretty sparse, but it did list contact information for the various stations and officers. No Camille Bordey, not at any station on Saint Marie. 

Richard sighed, closed the window for the airline website, and tried a new search. In a few minutes, he had made a booking at a hotel in Corbridge. Might as well check out those Romans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song “My Favorite Year” was written for the movie of the same name, but wasn’t used. As far as I know, Michael Feinstein is the only person who ever recorded it. You can probably find the song online. Listen to it with a box of tissues nearby.  
> The song referred but not quoted is “Where Do I Start?” also recorded by Michael Feinstein.


	3. Chapter 3

Michelle Deshaies was bored. She was stuck in a dead-end job, waitressing at a bar in a small resort on Saint Juste. This was the seventh job in eighteen months. She’d been fired six times, and each time the next bar had been a bit seedier, a bit rougher crowd. This bar, the Crow’s Nest, looked out on a small marina. No yachts here, just smallish fishing and dive boats. She scanned the marina. Nothing interesting happening out there. Nothing happening in the bar, either. It was early for the lunchtime drinkers.

“Hey, there, honey, what do I have to do to get a drink in this place?” The drawl was American, possibly fake. The looks were classic surfer. Tall, tan, blond. And he seemed to be looking for something.

“Red Stripe, okay?” she asked.

“You bet. Just make sure it’s cold.”

She brought the beer to his table.

“Thanks. What’s your name, honey?”

“Michelle. What’s yours?”

“Tom. You live around here?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you recommend someone with a fast boat?”

She looked out the window at the harbor. “Not much speed out there. How fast do you want to go?”

“Some kind of speedboat. I’m looking for a little fun, a little adventure.”

“I know someone who might be willing to give you a ride.”

“I’d like to rent one.”

“If the price was right, maybe he would. I can give you his number.”

“Sure, but I’d rather have yours.”

“You’re gonna have to settle for Claude’s number. I’m not for rent.” She scribbed a phone number on a napkin and left him to drink his beer. She went into the rest room and sent a quick text.

_got a nibble, wants a speedboat. gave your number_

When she returned, Tom was finishing his beer.”

“Can I get you another?”

“Nah, things to do, ya know?” He paid his tab, left a generous tip, and left. The bartender was busy talking to a regular. Nobody noticed when she picked up the bottle by the edge of the top, and took it into the back room where her purse was. She slipped it into a plastic bag and knotted the bag. Just in case Tom turned out to be their man.

Lunch was busy, and Tom didn’t come back. Around 5:00, Claude strolled in. He was wearing a chambray shirt over a t-shirt that advertised a boat company.

“Hi, Mish!”

“Hi, Claude.” Michelle set a beer in front of him. “What’s new?”

“I had hoped to fish today, but no nibbles.”

“That’s too bad. Maybe tomorrow you’ll hook a big one. Don’t forget the recycling.” Michelle fiddled with her phone and tapped it against Claude’s, sending him a photo she’d taken earlier. 

Soon more customers came in, and she went back to work.

Claude took the shirt off and draped it over the back of the stool. He sipped his beer, ordered a burger, and watched Michelle wait tables. She was doing a good job. He wondered how long it would be until she’d have to screw up, get fired, and move on to another seedy bar. He paid his tab and walked out, leaving his shirt on the back of the stool.

“Idiot!” said Michelle, snatching the shirt. She turned to the bartender, held up the shirt and said, “Maybe I can catch him. Be right back.”

She ran out the back door, which faced part of the parking lot. On the way, she grabbed the bottle from her purse and slipped it under the shirt. In the parking lot, she shouted to Claude, saying in French that he’d forgotten his shirt and would probably forget his head if it weren’t attached to his body.

“Merci, ma belle!” he said with a laugh. When he got close enough to take the shirt he whispered, “Good job.”

Michelle returned to the bar. 

The bartender raised his eyebrows, and said suggestively, “I guess you didn’t _catch_ him. Even Claude isn’t that quick.”

Michelle made a face at him and did the rounds of her customers to see who needed another drink.

It was Karaoke Night at the Crow’s Nest. Michelle could not understand how so many tone-deaf people could think they could sing. She once had known someone with perfect pitch. He would have HATED karaoke even more than she did. But it encouraged more drinking, and the tips were good, especially if she agreed to sing backup.

The attempts at rock and roll were bad enough, but a drunk and a ballad made for a deadly combination.

An American woman, dressed in very short shorts and a too bright, too tight tank top, looked over the song list. “Oh, God, I LOVE this one.” She picked up the microphone and began to caterwaul.

> “Memories light the corner of my mind,  
>  Misty watercolor memories  
>  Of the way we werrrr.”

Michelle walked outside to get away from the song. She had taken this job, or rather, this string of jobs, to escape from her memories. If she could be bored enough for long enough, she might—just might—forget. 

The woman was really getting into the song. Even outside, Michelle could hear her.

> “Can it beee that it was allll so simple then?  
>  Or has time rewritten every line?  
>  If we had the chance to do it all again,  
>  Tell me, would weeee?  
>  Could weeeeeee?”

Michelle sighed. She had almost forgotten who she used to be. But if she had the chance to go back, oh yes, hell yes, she’d do it all again. And hope for a different ending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song that is sung at the bar is “The Way We Were,” by Marvin Hamlish (music) and Alan and Marilyn Bergman (lyrics). I apologize to them for having a character sing it badly.


	4. Chapter 4

Richard enjoyed his holiday in northern England. He’d begun by visiting the Museum of London, to review their exhibits on England’s Roman history. It hadn’t been “his” period of history at university. He was more interested in the Plantagenets. But he’d already been to all of the Richard III pilgrimage sites, so he didn’t need to go to Yorkshire again. He took advantage of the museum’s gift shop to buy a book on Roman Britain. 

Dreading a long drive on the motorways, Richard had treated himself to a train ticket to Carlisle. He used the time to relax and read his book. At Carlisle, he’d hired a car to drive the route of Hadrian’s Wall. Standing on a windy ridge, Richard looked along the wall. He saw hikers, families on holiday, people taking pictures, even one woman drawing on a sketchpad. He tried to imagine Roman soldiers there instead. He wondered how they felt about being posted to the edge of the empire. Were they excited by the prospect? 

One foggy morning, he walked along part of the path that followed the wall. For once, he remembered that his phone was also a camera. So he took some pictures, shooting downhill, capturing a view of the wall disappearing into the gloom. Again, he thought about the Roman soldiers. Rome had a reputation for being warm and sunny. Did the soldiers complain about the drizzle and cold weather, the way he’d complained about the heat on Saint Marie? Richard gave himself a mental shake. Lately, he seemed to look at everything in the context of his year on Saint Marie. That had to stop, or he’d go completely mad.

He sent a postcard to his parents, and one to the station. He visited museums and sites during the day and pubs in the evening. He would sit with a pint and his history book. Sometimes he’d meet a fellow history enthusiast and they’d talk about the Wall and the Romans. 

When he got to Newcastle, he turned in the car and took the train back to London. All in all, it had been a good week.

-o-o-o-o-

When Richard went back to work on Monday morning, he was greeted by DI Kenwood, who was holding the postcard.

“What’s this, then, Poole? I thought you were going to Rome.”

“No, I went to the remains of Roman Britain in the north.” Richard pulled out his phone and opened the file of photos. “See?”

The other detectives gathered around as Richard flicked through the pictures he’d taken.

“Wait, go back!” said DS Wythe. Richard scrolled back to the picture he’d taken in the fog. “That’s a good shot. Very atmospheric. You should have that one blown up.”

“Thanks, maybe I will.”

“What about that other one, then?” asked Kenwood. “The one with a cow by a stone wall. Was that a Roman cow?”

Everyone laughed, and Richard said, “Kenwood, did you ever pass any history course you took?”

Kenwood laughed, and said, “Just barely. But I was a star at maths.”

“Yeah,” said DS Sunata. “He can count all the way to 21 if he takes his shoes off.”

There was a pause while Sunata waited for the others to get the joke. Richard and Peggie laughed first. Kenwood took a second then he threw a paper clip at Sunata.

“Hey! I do NOT have extra toes.”

There were a few muttered comments as the detectives made their way to their desks. Peggie lingered for a moment at Richard’s desk.

“It seems you had a good week, sir. I’m glad.”

“Thanks, Peggie. It was nice. Restful.”

“When you get a minute, could you email that fog shot to me? I really like it.”

“Certainly. I don’t often think to take pictures. I should do that more often.” _I should have taken some when I was on Saint Marie._

Superintendent Ross arrived and walked to Richard’s desk.

“Welcome back, Poole. If I could have a minute?”

Richard followed the Superintendent into his office.

“Have a seat, Poole. There have been some complaints from some of our outlying police forces. We’re hearing that they get short shrift when it comes to budgets. We have an odd assortment of commonwealth and colony to juggle, and there are concerns that we could do better by them. You were in the Caribbean. I'd like to hear your thoughts on this.”

Richard and his boss talked about this for a half hour, then Ross invited Richard to a meeting at New Scotland Yard, headquarters of the Met. 

-o-o-o-o-

The meeting was a larger version of the discussion Richard had had with Ross. He met two other detectives, DCI Donnelly and DCI Harrington. 

The Assistant Commissioner who was leading the meeting introduced the men to each other. 

“You’ve all been in London for various time periods. Donnelly has moved here recently from the Australian Outback, Harrington spent five years in Gibraltar, and Poole spent a year in the Caribbean. You’ve got some interesting history amongst you, and I want you to make use of it. We’re forming a group to look into our smaller outpost policing situations. See how they work, what their special needs are and how they meet them. And see what we can do to help them. Mind you, make NO promises of any sort. This is fact-finding. We’ll set up a series of trips for you to take. You will travel as a team and report as a team. I suggest you rotate being lead, rather than have a permanent number one. You won’t be going anywhere for a month or two, so I suggest you have a few meetings to get to know one another and talk through the issues you’ve all lived with. ”

As the meeting broke up, Harrington suggested they have their first group meeting right away. He knew a good pub nearby…


	5. Chapter 5

A week after Michelle met Tom, he appeared in the Crow’s Nest again. As before, it was early for lunch, so they chatted.

“Hey honey, remember me?”

“Yeah, Tom, right? Red Stripe?”

“Right twice.”

Michelle set the beer down in front of Tom. He took a long swig. 

“Your boyfriend is taking me for a boat ride today. Wanna come along?”

Michelle smiled, “I’m glad you were able to arrange things. But—”

“Hi, Baby,” Claude snaked his arms around Michelle’s waist and kissed her neck. Michelle tensed slightly. Something was going on.

“Beer, Claude?” she asked.

“Maybe later. This crazy person wants to go fast. You know I don’t drink when I race the boat.”

“So, Michelle,” asked Tom. “Is he as good as he says?”

“He’s won a few impromptu races.”

“A few?” said Claude. “I’ve won FOUR. And I might win another one sometime soon.”

“Just be careful,” said Michelle as she moved off to greet another customer. The way he emphasized _four_ was significant. So, it looked as if Tom would be number five. She wondered which poor customer she’d have to spill a tray of drinks on tonight.

“Women,” said Claude with a shrug. “They don’t get the thrill of a really fast boat.”

Tom drank his beer, and then went to the restroom.

Michelle walked over to the table to pick up the empty.

“Tonight,” said Claude quietly. “And win or lose, you’re out. For good.”

“And you?” She wiped the table.

“I’ll set up things for your replacement, and then I’m out, too.”

“Sick, quit, get fired?”

“Your call. Ten o’clock, at the marina. I’ll text you.”

Michelle smiled and said at normal volume, “Have a good ride. Don’t do anything crazy.”

Tom came out of the restroom as she said that. “Damn, woman, crazy is what I’m looking for!”

Michelle watched the two men walk down to the marina. Claude’s boat was black and sleek, just the thing for something illegal in the dark. _Be safe, Claude!_

-o-o-o-o-

The day dragged on for Michelle. She spent a lot of time thinking about her exit strategy. There were set scenarios she could follow, but she could improvise as the situation warranted. She would have to read the bartender’s attitude. If he was grouchy, she could orchestrate getting fired. But she would prefer to play sick. If this was a true exit, and not just moving on to her next place, going low-key appealed to her.

During the slow time after lunch, Michelle told the bartender she had a headache and was going out for some fresh air. She took a bottle of water with her, and walked to the marina. There was no sign of Claude’s boat, but she didn’t really expect them to be back so soon. They might not even return to this spot. 

She walked to a little park and sat in the shade. She put her earbuds in and listened to some songs on her phone. She let it choose songs randomly. Her taste certainly was eclectic. A song from the Venerator’s last CD came up. She remembered it from Solly’s funeral. One of their few slow songs. She’d wanted to dance. It seemed so long ago, and she still hadn’t managed to escape her memories. 

Then up came an Abba song. She’d loaded some Abba tunes to remember her mother by. Abba was one of those agree-to-disagree things between them. She sighed as she thought of her mother. The woman wasn’t stupid. She’d know that the bland “Having a great time” postcards from the Bahamas were just part of the cover, all written at the beginning. But as long as they kept coming, it meant she was okay. The song played on, “Money, money, money, it’s a rich man’s world.” So true. And these bastards were getting rich by smuggling drugs. Spreading around poison that hurt so many more than just the people who took them. It was a good thing Claude was taking Tom out on the boat. She’d just push the guy overboard. It wouldn’t advance the investigation, but it would take out one of the scum, anyhow.

And then THAT song started to play.

> “If we had the chance to do it all again,  
>  Tell me, would we?  
>  Could we?”

No, she told herself, she couldn’t. Almost two years later? He probably had forgotten her. 

> Memories may be beautiful and yet  
>  What’s too painful to remember  
>  We simply choose to forget.

Michelle shook her head. Nice song, but that last line was not true. It hurt to remember all those times she _almost_ got through, but didn’t. But she couldn’t forget them. And dammit, now she DID have a headache.

Michelle went to the flat—really just a room—that she had rented. She looked around to see if there was anything she wanted to take. There were no personal keepsakes; that wasn’t allowed. Nothing that could identify her. She took one little item, and then left. The place was a bit messy, but that would make it look like she had intended to come back.

She worked through dinner, although she made it obvious that she still had her headache. Around 9:30, she ran to the restroom rapidly. The noise of the bar hid the fact that she wasn’t actually throwing up. But the way she ran worried the bartender. When she came out, he waved her over.

“Go home, Michelle. You look like crap. I don’t need you sicking up on the customers. We’ll manage.”

“Thanks, Jack. I’ll feel better tomorrow. Goodnight.”

She walked down to the marina and out to the end of one of the docks, where it was dark. Grateful for her dark skin and hair and the bar uniform of black tank top and shorts, she felt invisible. A few minutes later, her phone buzzed. She looked at the message.

_Ready when u r._

She texted back:

_ok_

Soon a boat slid up to the dock.

“Harry sent me,” said a whispered voice. 

Michelle felt like something out of a cheap spy novel, but she gave the response, “I bought him some mangoes.”

She was helped down into the boat, and the two men in the boat paddled out onto the dark sea.

Once they were far enough away from the shore that they might not be noticed, one of the men started the engine. She clutched the little plastic toy lizard and sighed. She was on her way home.


	6. Chapter 6

When she woke up, she wasn’t sure where she was at first. Not in her little flat on Saint Juste. No, she was in a bright and airy room, in a very comfortable bed. The spa, that’s right, she was in the spa.

She remembered waking up on a ship, still wearing the clothes she’d had on the previous night. A young Coast Guard crewman had given her a mug of coffee and an invitation to have breakfast on deck. She’d felt tired and grubby, but glad to be away from Saint Juste.

A senior officer had greeted her and told her that the mission had been successful, and Claude was safe. “You two contributed to five important arrests in your time on Saint Juste. And this last guy, Tom—who incidentally is not really called Tom—folded like a house of cards. He’s spilling information at an amazing rate. Nabbing him will help us put a good dent in the trafficking.”

Next came the debriefing in an office on Guadeloupe. She told what had happened, and was delighted that Tom’s plea bargain meant that she wouldn’t have to testify at any trials. That had been her one fear about going undercover to break a drug ring. What if she testified and they went after her? But that wouldn’t happen. She had been just some chick working at a bar, nobody smart enough to know anything about them. And in a few days, a story would be circulated that a woman’s body had washed up on a beach. And that would be the end of Michelle Deshaies.

At the end of the debriefing, she’d been given a collection of important items. Camille’s passport and credit cards, some fresh clothing. The clothes were new, but had been washed a few times so they didn’t seem too new. She was also given a collection of souvenirs from the Bahamas to sort through, so that it would seem to friends and family that she actually had spent eighteen months working there. The phone she had been using was taken back, and she was given a new one. She asked if she could transfer music files, and the phones were given to a tech to do that for her. Some stock pictures from the Bahamas were also loaded onto the new phone. 

And now she was at the spa. She had been there for a few days, and had a few more to go. It was delightful. Camille kept to herself, read, and enjoyed massages and soaks in the hot tub. She had her hair cut and got new makeup. She exercised and worked on her posture. Michelle had slouched and been a bit sloppy. It felt good to act like a more confident woman again.

Camille found massages to be especially therapeutic. She always asked for Janette, who had recently moved to Guadeloupe from the US. She was a very good masseuse, and her lack of local knowledge made it easy for Camille to chat with her, no fear of being caught in a lie. The cover story was that Camille had been on an overseas assignment with a financial company, very high-stress, but client confidentiality and all that, so she couldn’t say more. 

Janette wanted to learn more about the Caribbean, so Camille answered questions about culture, food, music, and so on. Janette could feel Camille’s muscles relax as she talked about the islands. Janette was very curious about Voodoo. When Camille got to Erzulie, she remembered a night that seemed a million years ago. A blind date, the wrong man on the patio. Or maybe he was the right man…

Janette could feel Camille’s muscles tense. “Are you all right?”

“Sorry, just an old memory. Erzulie hasn’t been kind to me. And really, if you consider the number of times my mother has said a prayer to her on my behalf, she should have done better.”

“Would you rather not talk? Do you have music with you?”

“Oh, damn, no. I forgot my phone.”

“We have CDs here, mostly forgotten by clients. Let me see what’s in the basket. Oh, here’s one for you. It’s called ‘Isn’t It Romantic?’ Try that. Maybe it will send a message to Erzulie.”

The first track was the title tune, and Camille found it relaxing. It was a good slow-dance song, and she could almost imagine… 

Camille liked to relax a bit after a massage, so Janette left her in the dimly lighted room to rest. The music was pleasant. Camille wondered if anyone would care if she took the CD. Richard would scold her. But he wasn’t here, was he, dammit. Then track six played. She'd never heard this song before, but it hit her hard. 

> Fools and little children run away  
>  If we could go back there, would we stay?  
>  After all the loves I’ve lived through,  
>  All these years  
>  I had to go so far without you,  
>  Now it’s clear,  
>  You were my favorite love.  
>  That was my favorite year.

She had run away. When Richard went back to London, she couldn’t bear to stay at the station on Saint Marie. If he had once, just once, asked. Hinted, even. One “I miss you” in an email and she’d have been on the next flight. But he didn’t. So she ran away and tried to forget what had been her favorite year on Saint Marie.

Camille pulled off the headphones and turned off the CD player. No, leave that CD where it was. It hadn’t done her any good at all. She put on her robe, dried her eyes and returned to her room. She ordered room-service dinner, which she hardly touched, and tried to figure out what she was going to do next.

-o-o-o-o-

Camille flew to Saint Marie from Guadeloupe, as if it had been a connecting flight from the Bahamas. She was met at Saint Marie airport by the Commissioner of Police. He was happy to see her, and very proud that one of his officers had done such a good job. She knew that it was driving him crazy that he couldn’t boast about it to the Police Committee and take a bit of credit for it. 

Their interview was brief. She would be promoted to DI and given her choice of available positions. She thanked him, but asked instead for a leave of absence. She needed time, she said, to decide if she still wanted to be a cop.

Catherine was surprised when Camille walked into the bar.

“Camille! Why didn’t you tell me you were coming home?” Catherine knew Camille had gone undercover, although she could never acknowledge it. 

“I wanted to surprise you!”

They slid into French and babbled excitedly at each other. Catherine started to get teary-eyed, and Camille just said, “Tonight, Maman, I’ll tell you what I can.”

She could tell her mother very little. Catherine hadn’t liked Camille’s decision to go undercover again. She understood why Camille hadn’t liked working with the new DI. It had nearly broken Catherine’s heart to see her daughter so unhappy, and eighteen months didn’t seem to have changed things. Camille explained about the leave of absence.

“I was someone else for eighteen months. I can’t just, “she snapped her fingers, “Turn Camille back on. I need time to find myself, decide what I want to do.”

“You aren’t going to stay on Saint Marie, are you?” Catherine asked.

“I don’t know what I want, Maman.”

“I think you do, Camille.”

“There’s no point. If he’d wanted me, he’d have asked. Has anyone heard from him?”

“Not that I know of. Maybe after you see the boys you’ll feel better, more like yourself. Oh, Juliet is pregnant again, due very soon, so that’s exciting.” Catherine continued to catch Camille up on local goings-on and gossip. But she could see that Camille wasn’t connecting with it.


	7. Chapter 7

The Powers That Be decided that the fact-finding team should begin by looking at some islands in the Caribbean. They seemed to have the smallest budgets and police forces. For a long time, small staffs had been sufficient on small islands. For the most part, locals respected the value of the tourist trade and didn’t want to hurt their island’s reputation. But with drug and human smuggling on the increase in several areas around the globe, trouble came from outside, and a small island with a small police force could become a hot spot. 

Because Richard had lived in the Caribbean, Donnelly and Harrington immediately suggested he take the lead on this trip. Richard, recently promoted to DCI, was pleased to be the lead. He got permission to borrow Peggie to help with logistics. Together, they organized an itinerary with flights and hotel rooms. 

“I think that’s everything we can do in advance,” she said, as she printed out a hard copy of the itinerary. “I envy you!”

“Peggie, it’s a work trip, not a holiday.”

“But it will be sunny and warm …”

“And humid, and buggy.”

“And beaches and the ocean to wade in…”

“Sand everywhere and spiny things to step on in the water.”

Peggie laughed, “If you want to send someone in your place, I’m willing to travel.”

“You say that now,” Richard replied, “But when they lose your luggage and you have to spend a week wearing the same clothes, you won’t think it’s such a treat.”

“They can’t lose your luggage EVERY time, sir.”

“Oh, they’ll try. Airlines hate me. But I have a secret plan. I’m going to pack an extra small case and leave it with you. If my luggage goes missing, you can overnight the backup case to wherever I am.”

“That sounds like a good idea. If you do that, they won’t lose your luggage. A reverse voodoo sort of thing.”

“Voodoo doesn’t work. It’s just an excuse to have festivals.” 

“You never know. Perhaps it works for people who believe in it.” Peggie smiled as she saw Richard’s attention drift.

Richard thought back to the Erzulie festival. If he’d believed in Erzulie, would that have done any good?

-o-o-o-o-

As part of pre-trip work, the three detectives met weekly to discuss the stations they would visit. They had dossiers on each location. Looking at recent cases helped them develop a set of questions they would ask as they interviewed each station chief. No matter how hard Richard tried to explain the heat and humidity, the other two detectives were delighted with their planned destinations. 

“I think the timeline for visiting some places is too tight,” said Donnelly, looking over the itinerary. “Put in more time for us to confer after our interviews.”

“Confer?”

“Yes. You know, _confer_. Over a beer at a beach bar. Come on, Poole, give us some time off!”

“We won’t be working weekends.”

“I should hope not!” said Harrington. 

-o-o-o-o-

Camille had given up up the house she rented in Saint Marie when she took the undercover assignment. After her return to Saint Marie, she moved in with her mother. They got on well and were happy enough, but Camille felt that she should be a grownup and find her own place. She almost rented a house, but the idea of signing a lease and promising to be on Saint Marie for a year scared her. She felt as if she couldn’t commit to anything. 

She considered the counseling that was available for undercover detectives after a long or difficult assignment. But she didn’t think it would help. She knew what she wanted. She knew she couldn’t have it. The obvious answer was “move on.” So, really, what could some psychiatrist tell her that she didn’t already know?

Camille knew that the current DI in Honoré had refused to live in the beach shack. She considered asking the Commissioner if she could rent it. But that was hardly conducive to good mental health. One day, hoping to cure herself of whatever it was that was wrong, Camille went out to look at the shack. She was saddened to see it boarded up. It had been badly damaged in a storm, and since it wasn’t wanted by anyone, the owner had closed it up. 

Even though she knew she shouldn’t do it, Camille went out there often. She would sit on the veranda steps and hope Harry would come by to visit her. She had no idea how long an anole lived. He might be dead by now. The thought that Richard’s first friend on the island might be gone was more than she could bear. She gave in and cried. 

-o-o-o-o-

Richard’s team began their tour with a stop in Bermuda, a Crown Colony. Richard had been surprised to see it on the itinerary, as Bermuda is not in the Caribbean. But it is, as the Assistant Commissioner said, “Somewhere in the ocean, west of the Mid-Atlantic Ridge.” And that was close enough for him.

Richard was pleased at how well the trip began. They were able to fly a “proper airline,” which meant British Airways, an airline that did NOT lose his luggage. They were met by someone from the Police Commissioner’s staff and taken to their hotel in Hamilton, the capital of Bermuda.

Their driver said, “There are no rental cars on Bermuda, so we can take you to the various stations. For getting around on your leisure time, I recommend getting a bus pass. Our bus system is good, and the bus station here in Hamilton is the hub. And, of course, there are taxis.”

“What about scooters?” asked Donnelly. 

“They are very popular with tourists,” the driver replied. “But they take some getting used to. Of course, you drive on the left, as we do, so that wouldn’t be an adjustment. But our roads are narrow, and many places have no shoulder. Unless you’re experienced at riding a scooter or motorcycle, I don’t recommend it. Our hospital and clinics see a lot of tourists with road rash.”

“No scooters,” said Richard, remembering the terror of riding in Dwayne’s sidecar. 

Their meetings in Bermuda went smoothly, and they all agreed that it was an impressive place. Crime rates were low. Between tourism and offshore financial institutions, the island seemed prosperous. Several police officers they met had served on forces in England, and then moved to Bermuda. Harrington said that he could see himself doing that. 

Richard had to admit that the Englishness of Bermuda appealed to him, too. Perhaps if Saint Marie had been more like Bermuda, he’d have been happy to stay. Or not. Bermuda seemed to be stricter about rules than Saint Marie was. And no matter what island they’d been on, she would have been off-limits. 

After meetings, Donnelly and Harrington would take the boat to the hotel’s sister property on the beach. Richard stayed in Hamilton and enjoyed the hotel’s afternoon tea. One afternoon, he decided to have tea on the terrace. It was a hot day, at least by Richard’s standards. Not a hot day by tropical standards. But it made him think back to his year on Saint Marie, how he would end the workday with tea at Catherine’s bar while the rest of the team drank beer. He wondered what was happening on Saint Marie. Catherine almost certainly still had the bar. He supposed Dwayne and Fidel were still ending workdays there. Perhaps they had a Chief who was more willing to socialize. And Camille? Part of him wanted to know where she was, but part of him was afraid of learning something he didn’t want to know.

In the evenings, the three men would “confer” over drinks and dinner. Richard developed a taste for a drink called a “dark and stormy,” a mixture of ginger beer and dark rum. The other detectives opted for the classic Bermuda “rum swizzle,” a concoction of fruit juice, sugar syrup and rum. Richard and Donnelly teased Harrington about his sunburn.

“I did warn you,” said Richard. “And we aren’t in the tropics yet. The sunlight will be even stronger there. Factor 50 is the answer. Otherwise, you know what they say, white bread at breakfast, lobster by lunchtime.”

“Too right,” said Donnelly. “Australians are paranoid about sunburn. Did you know Australia has the highest melanoma rate in the world? The mantra there is _slip, slap, slop_. Slip on a shirt, slap on a hat, and slop on the sunscreen. If you return all tanned, the Gov will think you were loafing on a beach while Poole and I did all the work.”

-o-o-o-o-

Dwayne and Fidel were happy to see Camille again. The DS who had replaced Camille was good. Not as smart as she was, of course. Unfortunately, the DI was the same one who had been there when she left.

“Well, you know how it is, Camille,” said Dwayne. “The Chief looks at it as an easy job. Don’t look too deeply, just arrest someone and call it done.”

“Yes,” said Fidel. “He would never have figured out the Powell case and found the money.”

“I had hoped he would start to take the job more seriously,” said Camille. 

“No, he does just enough work to be able to stay here. DS Evers tries,” said Fidel, “But he doesn’t push hard enough. Not like you with the Chief. Chief Poole, I mean. When you pushed the new Chief, you got nowhere. But when you pushed Poole…”

“Woo!” laughed Dwayne, “You two put on some fireworks shows. I miss that. Do you remember the time …”

Dwayne and Fidel dragged up old memories. Camille found it difficult to keep up with the conversation as her mind wandered. 

-o-o-o-o-

Richard’s team arrived on New Providence Island in the Bahamas on time. Despite Richard’s misgivings about having to connect in Miami and about tropical inefficiency, all of their luggage arrived with them. When they stepped out of the airport, Harrington gasped.

“Holy hell! It’s humid!”

“Welcome to the tropics,” said Richard. “Although, technically we aren’t quite there. We’re a few degrees north of the Tropic of Cancer. But I understand how you feel. I was shocked at the heat and humidity when I arrived on Saint Marie.”

As before, they were met by someone from the Police Commissioner’s staff. Their hotel was a convenient distance from Government House, where they would have meetings the next day. Harrington and Donnelly were pleased that this hotel, despite being in the capital city, had its own beach. They wanted to have their first “conference” on the beach, but Richard convinced them that the patio bar, which was shaded, was the better choice. At least they could wear swim clothes out there, and go for a swim when they took breaks from “conferring.”

They asked about local beers, and were pleased to find that there were several available at the hotel. Donnelly chose Strong Back Stout. Richard and Harrington tried Eclipse. Harrington removed the lime that was perched on the rim of his glass and sighed.

“I don’t see the need to add lemon or lime,” he said. “The beer should have taste enough of its own. How’s the stout?”

“Not in need of any additional flavors,” said Donnelly with a grin. “Not Guinness, but very good.”

“It’s nice to see variety. Most of the beer served on Saint Marie was lager. When I got back to England, stout and porter seemed strange,” said Richard. “But then, a cold lager is refreshing when it’s hot. But I don’t recall anyone bothering with lime in beer on Saint Marie. With rum, definitely, but not with beer. Hmm, I wonder if that’s why it’s called liming.”

“What is liming?”

“Relaxing with friends and a cold drink. Sad to say, I wasn’t very good at it. But my team on Saint Marie were experts.” 

Donnelly and Harrington headed for the sand and the water. Richard finished his beer. He stared at the wedge of lime at the bottom of the glass. Liming. No, he hadn’t been good at it, whether the lime was in beer or rum. He resisted their friendship for too long. He resisted all of Saint Marie, but they got to him after a while. She got to him, too, more than he could ever tell her.

“Sir?”

“Hmmm? Sorry, not paying attention.”

The waitress smiled, “Good! That’s a sign you’re relaxing. Can I get you anything else?”

“No, thank you. Just the bill.” Richard signed for lunch and the drinks. He wondered how much of their F&B expenses would be reimbursed. His records were beginning to look like they were drinking their way through the trip.

They had dinner with the Police Commissioner and several senior officers. The next few days were filled with meetings and “conferences.” On their last afternoon in Nassau, Harrington announced his intention to do some souvenir shopping at the Straw Market.

“You don’t want to do this,” said Richard. “Sellers are aggressive and you’re expected to bargain at these markets.”

“Brilliant!” said Donnelly. “I’m an excellent bargainer. I’ve gone to Bali on holiday a few times. NOBODY pays the first price they’re given. If they say 10, you have to offer no more than 5 or you spoil the game.”

“I hated that part of shopping at a market,” said Richard. “I am rubbish at bargaining. My DS tried to teach me, and I did get better, but never as good as my team were. Fortunately, once the sellers got to know me, they knew I’d stop if I wanted something, so they didn’t call out and cajole.”

“It sounds like we need a team effort,” said Donnelly. “Poole, you can warn us off the dodgiest tat, and I’ll be the negotiator.”

They managed well at the market. Richard didn’t buy anything, but Donnelly and Harrington found gifts for their wives, and Harrington for his children. After the market, they walked down the main shopping street. Richard preferred this kind of shopping. The price was the price, and some shops featured work that was local. One gallery had locally produced jewelry. The salesgirl encouraged them to look at pieces that featured Larimar, the gemstone of the Caribbean.

She told the story of its discovery on the island of Hispaniola, and how it is associated with healing and with the lost continent of Atlantis. Richard rolled his eyes as she went on and on about the “Atlantis stone.” But he had to admit the blue color was lovely. One “freeform” pendant set in silver caught his eye. He wanted to buy it, but it wasn’t his mother’s taste at all. And there was nobody else for whom he would buy such an expensive souvenir.

After they left the shop, Harrington said, “So, how much of that is true, do you think?”

“You don’t believe all that nonsense about Atlantis, do you?” asked Richard.

“No, no, I mean about it coming only from Hispaniola.”

“It’s true,” said Donnelly, squinting at his phone in the bright light. “It says here, some guy first found the stones in gravel washed down from a mountain. They’re probably volcanic, and were eroded smooth as they were carried downstream.”

“Weathered,” said Richard.

“What?”

“Weathering is wearing, erosion is carrying away. Never mind. So it really does come from a limited source?”

“They mine it now,” said Donnelly.” I suppose it’s like diamonds. They control the flow of stones to keep prices up.”

“I wonder,” said Harrington. “My wife wanted Tanzanite earrings, and they supposedly were rare and available only from Tanzania and from ‘authorized’ jewelry stores in the Caribbean. Her sister bought some back from a holiday, and a few years later, the stuff was all over the department stores at home.”

“You can get Larimar online,” said Donnelly, who had changed to a different site. “What we saw in that shop may have been set here, but the stones all do come from Hispaniola. Did you ever see it on Saint Marie, Poole?”

“Not that I can recall.”

Donnelly and Harrington wanted one more swim. Richard said he would meet them for dinner, and continued walking down the street. When he turned to go back to the hotel, he passed the gallery again. He recalled seeing a nice pair of Larimar earrings, not too large, not too expensive. It occurred to him that they would be a nice thank-you gift for Peggie for all her help in setting up the trip. So he turned and went into the gallery.

-o-o-o-o-

By the time Richard’s team got to St. Lucia, they had the process down to a science. Opening dinner with the higher-ups, and then meetings with the teams at various stations. They were beginning to see a pattern in needs. It was much as Richard had experienced on Saint Marie. More or newer vehicles, better access to technology, more opportunities for advanced training for officers. 

Richard would have liked to say that they could arrange it, but all the needs cost money, and his team were not empowered to say “yes” to anything. Once in a while, he had a nagging fear that this was all a “dog and pony show,” and nothing would come of it. His time on Saint Marie had taught him how much work could be done with so little. In a sense, more technology wasn’t absolutely necessary; he and his team had shown that. But he would have liked to have the authority to reward small hardworking teams with something that would make their efforts go further. 

One afternoon on St. Lucia, they were treated to a tropical rainstorm. They sat “conferring” on a covered patio while rain pelted down on the metal roof overhead. 

“Sweet Jesus, that’s loud!” said Harrington.

“It won’t last too long,” said Richard. “When it gets that humid, it just needs to rain. The air will feel cooler and drier after this. But then the water cycle will betray us. The sun will come out, and when the water evaporates it will be humid again.”

“I’ve seen rain like this in the wet season in Australia,” said Donnelly. “Poole’s right. This kind of rain is heavy but doesn’t go on for long at a time. The tropics, gotta love ’em, eh?”

-o-o-o-o-

Camille felt restless. Catherine had started to line up blind dates. Camille made it very clear that her mother was wasting her time. She would not do that any more. Erzulie had let her down horribly, and she was giving up. When Catherine sarcastically suggested her daughter join a convent, Camille remembered the times she’d made fun of Richard’s solitary “monastic” life. 

Camille enjoyed spending time with Dwayne and Fidel, but they didn’t work together now, so they had less to talk about. She was happy to babysit Rosie and give Juliet time to rest. When Juliet had the baby, a boy they named John, Camille celebrated with the others. But it was a bittersweet day for Camille because she kept thinking about the day Rosie was born. Richard said he’d never held a baby and Catherine said it was about time he did. So Fidel put the tiny bundle in Richard’s arms. Camille would never forget how Richard’s look of terror changed to amazement, how he had smiled, and how she had wished…

Camille bought herself an e-reader and spent much of her spare time reading. She downloaded Rutherfurd’s _London._ She started reading Dickens, but the level of detail was too annoying. She reread Austen. She read _Bridget Jones’s Diary_ and some of the Lynleys. She reread _The Count of Monte Cristo_ and wondered how long it would take her to get herself together and haul her sorry ass off Saint Marie. Because it was becoming increasingly clear that she couldn’t stay.

Despite her foray into English literature, Camille knew that London wasn’t an option. She was starting to fantasize about running into him on the street or in a pub, or getting a job at the Met and being assigned as his partner. None of that was going to happen. She needed to be realistic. She looked at the Met website and found that he was working in London. He’d been promoted to DCI. Good for him, she thought. She found a picture of several detectives who had been promoted at the same time. She looked as hard as she could, but she couldn’t get a clear view of his left hand. She quickly turned off the computer before she slid all the way into the land of cyber stalkers.

Not London. Maybe Paris, how about Paris? She’d enjoyed her time in Paris. And if she ever did get up the nerve to go to London, there was always the Eurostar…


	8. Chapter 8

The final stop for Richard’s team was Saint Marie. He was absolutely certain the airline would lose his luggage. But they didn’t, and he owed his colleagues a round of drinks for losing the bet. A young assistant from the Commissioner’s office drove them to their hotel. He confirmed their dinner that evening, and also confirmed their list of appointments. 

In some respects, Richard had saved the easiest part of the trip for last. He knew the island and its needs. He remembered how low his expectations had been when he first arrived on Saint Marie. Old computers, old and too few vehicles, no forensics lab. He’d expected the abilities of the team to be on par with the technology. But they’d surprised him, and he had to adjust his thinking. All of the teams he’d met with on this trip had exceeded those first expectations. Some were almost as good as his team on Saint Marie. That laid-back Caribbean attitude, which he still tended to think of as inefficiency, did not permeate the police departments. He would be pleased to report that when he got back to England.

In other respects, he had put off the most difficult part of the trip until the end. But he was on Saint Marie now. Sooner or later, he’d find out what he both wanted and feared to know.

In order to be near Government House, the site of several meetings, the team stayed at a new resort. The rooms were luxurious, the spa was inviting. 

“And you didn’t like it here?” said Donnelly, as they walked through the lobby of the hotel.

Richard laughed. “I didn’t live in a place like this. I’ll take you on a tour of the island and show you where I lived. There was a tree growing through my front room. Free-range chickens wandered in from God knows where if I left the doors open. And I had to leave the veranda doors open in order to get a breeze through the place. No air conditioning.” Richard’s mind wandered, as he had feared it would.

> Fools and little children run away.  
>  If we could go back there, would we stay?

“Sounds primitive,” said Harrington.

“Hmm?” Richard snapped back to the present. “I suppose. The English people who come here don’t stay in the real Saint Marie. They stay in posh villas or resorts like this. Some never leave the property, except to get to and from the airport.”

“That doesn’t sound altogether bad, Poole,” said Donnelly. “In fact, I think I’ll spend the afternoon on the property. Take a dip in the pool.”

“Good plan,” said Harrington. “Poole?”

Richard noticed an office across the lobby. “Enjoy your swim. I think I’ll take a look around the island.”

Richard rented a car from the office in the hotel. He had no particular plan in mind. He just wanted to look at Saint Marie. Without thinking about it, he drove to his old beach house. It was boarded up, and he could see that it had sustained storm damage in the last year or so. Boarded up, closed off, even his old house was a metaphor for his life. 

He stood there, fidgeting with the car keys, trying to decide if he wanted to get a closer look. He was about to leave when a high-pitched voice said, “Hello. Have you come to see the enchanted cottage?”

A little girl who Richard guessed to be about four looked up at him. He looked around, but didn’t see anyone with her. A child that small shouldn’t be off on her own. Then he smiled. This was Saint Marie, where everyone looked out for everyone else’s children, and lectures on stranger-danger were not given on an hourly basis.

“Hello. Is the cottage really enchanted?”

She nodded solemnly, “Uh huh. A Wizard used to live there. Do you know the story?”

“No.”

“Wellll,” she began, “Once upon a time, a bear lived in this house.”

“A bear?” asked Richard, sitting down on the side steps of the veranda so that he’d be closer to eye level with the little storyteller.

“Uh huh. He lived here all alone, and nobody visited him. Then one day, a princess decided to visit him. He was scary, but she was brave. And she wanted to get to know him.”

“And did she?”

“Yes. He wasn’t really so scary. He was kind of shy and afraid of people. That’s why he lived out here, all alone. Well, almost alone. He had another friend. This friend was a lizard, a very special lizard.”

“There are lots of lizards on Saint Marie Why was this one so special?

“He was a wizard! In disguise, of course. So nobody knew that he was a wizard. But he could make people do things, just by the way he looked at them. The wizard was very wise, and knew that the bear needed a friend. That’s why he stayed with the bear.”

“A lizard wizard?”

She nodded, “Uh-huh.”

Richard smiled at the girl, “I bet I can guess his name.”

“Bet you can’t” she replied.

“Was it Harry?”

“Yes! You must be very smart, if you know that.”

“Actually, Harry is a common name for wizards.”

“Oh. Wellll, anyway, Harry and the bear took care of each other. Harry had the power to change the bear back into a human. Oh, I forgot to say! The bear was a prince who had a spell on him. But Harry couldn’t change him back unless he had a VERY good reason. So Harry watched the bear, waiting to see what would happen. He had to wait for a REALLY long time.”

“Why?”

“Because the bear was so shy. The princess fell in love with the bear, but Harry needed a sign from the bear. That’s what took so long. But one day, the princess was sad, and the bear went out and picked flowers to make her happy again. And that’s when Harry turned the bear into a prince.”

“Was the princess surprised?”

“No. She said she always knew there was a prince hiding inside the bear. And when he was a prince again, they sailed away together to his castle in a far-away land. And they lived happily ever after.”

“That’s a nice story. Do you know the name of the place they went to?”

“Umm, I think his castle was called something like Clacton Caravan, and—”

“Rosie!” a distant voice interrupted her. “Rosie!”

“Coming, Daddy!” Rosie turned back to Richard and said, “Goodbye, mister.”

Richard watched her scamper away, kicking up sand as she ran. The baby he remembered from his time on Saint Marie was growing up to be a charmer. Juliet was lovely, but he suspected the charm came from the time the little girl spent with someone else. Someone who could make up a story about a bear in a Caribbean beach shack. Fearing that Rosie would give away his presence, Richard walked to the car.

-o-o-o-o-

“Rosie! You know you weren’t supposed to go out of our sight,” Fidel scolded his daughter.

“I only went to look at the enchanted cottage. I wanted to see if Harry was there, so he could teach me to be a wizard.”

“Sweetie,” said Camille, hugging her Goddaughter, “It’s just a story. It’s true that a lizard once lived in that house, but he was just a lizard. He wasn’t able to break spells.” _I wasn’t able to, either._

“But, Auntie Camille,” Rosie began.

“It’s only a story,” Camille repeated. 

Fidel and Dwayne carried the coolers to the cars. Juliet packed up baby John’s things and looked at Camille. 

“We’ll be along in a minute, Juliet.” Camille turned to Rosie, “I know you love the story, but it’s only a story, and you shouldn’t wander off like that. Daddy asked you to stay where he could see you and you didn’t do that.”

“But he was there.”

“Who was there?”

“The prince. I don’t know why, but he came back.”

“Rosie, you shouldn’t talk to strangers.”

“But he wanted to know the story of the enchanted cottage, so I told him. And he IS the prince. He knew the wizard lizard’s name was Harry.”

“Do you remember when your maman read the Harry Potter story to you?”

“Yes, but—”

“Maybe the man was making a joke because Harry Potter is a wizard.”

“No! He was the prince. He WAS!”

Camille sighed. “All right, maybe you did see the prince. Now we’d better get going because everyone else is ready to go home.”

She walked Rosie to the car and said goodbye. As Camille hugged Rosie, the little girl said, “He really was the prince, Auntie Camille. He sat on the step so he could talk to me without being too tall. I could see he had green eyes, just like the prince in the story.”

Camille stood at her car as the others drove away. She was about to get in the car, but curiosity got the better of her. She had to go look at the beach shack. She walked along the sand, trying to guess how much of Rosie’s story could have been real and how much was the product of a young and fanciful mind. Could it have been Richard? No, impossible. What would bring him back to Saint Marie? He left two years ago without a backwards glance. 

She looked at the house, so forlorn and boarded up. She’d made up the story a few months ago when she was babysitting Rosie the day John was born. Camille had needed to talk to someone, but couldn’t bring herself to confide in anyone, not even her mother. So she had disguised her story in a fairy tale to while away the time on the beach with Rosie.

Camille walked around to the side of the house. One of the veranda steps had been brushed clean of sand. Only one person she knew would bother to do that. And she had missed seeing him. Or maybe not. She saw something shiny in the sand. 

-o-o-o-o-

Richard leaned against the car, arms folded across his chest. He knew when the trip started, Saint Marie would be difficult for him. The other detectives in the group knew that he had been here. He had promised to show them around, but he was relieved when they asked to do it later. It gave him time to get control of his feelings. 

> “Now, do I ever cross your mind?  
>  Are you memories like mine?  
>  Or have they let you go?”

He hadn’t played that song or let himself think about it for a few months. Rosie’s story made him wonder about Camille’s memories. There must have been _something,_ or she wouldn’t have worked real details into the story. The basic “Beauty and the Beast” storyline was something that Rosie would know. But a lizard named Harry? A castle in Clacton? Camille was the only person to whom he’d spoken about Clacton. He still remembered the night of the storm. The wind and rain were fierce, but he’d felt calm and safe in her company. She’d found the damnedest times and places to get him to open up. 

They’d sat surrounded by candlelight, and he’d talked about the case until she scolded him. Looking back, he realized that the setting was romantic, in an odd sort of way. Was it a lost opportunity, or had he been saved from an awkward situation? Probably the latter, especially considering they’d both been asleep when Dwayne and Fidel arrived. Although … perhaps it would have been worth the embarrassment if they’d been discovered disheveled and in each other’s arms. And damn the consequences.

> “I had to go so far without you, now it’s clear,  
>  You were my favorite love.  
>  That was my favorite year.”

Standing here certainly wasn’t helping him get control of his feelings. He reached into his pocket and swore. Where were the car keys? He looked around near the car, but didn’t see them. Perhaps he had dropped them near the house.

Richard started toward the house and froze. Camille sat on the step he’d occupied only a short while ago. She appeared to be holding a set of keys, turning them over and over in her hands. He stood still, trying to think of something to say. Anything, as long as it was better than just hello. Then she looked up and saw him.

“Lose something?” She held up the car keys.

_My heart. My mind. Everything I ever wanted._ “Yes, thanks, I guess I dropped them while I was talking to Rosie.”

Camille scooted over, the extra space on the step an unspoken invitation. Richard sat down. He had no idea what to say. They were only an inch apart, but the Gulf of Two Years separated them. Despite having expected that Richard would return for his keys, Camille wasn’t any more prepared to talk than he was. The both stared off into the distance.

“Holiday?” she asked, finally.

“No. Work. A tour of various islands to assess police forces and their needs.”

“Oh.”

“We got here this morning. My colleagues are relaxing at the hotel. I wanted to take some time to … you know … memories.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean.” Damn, that song started up in her mind again.

They sat quietly for a few minutes, then Richard asked, “Where have you been? You weren’t listed at any of the stations on the Saint Marie website.”

“After a few months, I needed to get off Saint Marie. I volunteered for undercover. Small island, it lasted eighteen months. And then I couldn’t make myself go back, not anywhere. I just … couldn’t. I’m on leave. I got back to Saint Marie shortly before John was born. That’s Fidel and Juliet’s new baby, born three months ago.”

“Ah.” Richard tried to think of something to say. They’d covered the missing two years in a few sentences, but the distance between them was still there. At a loss for anything else to say, Richard said, “Rosie’s a little beauty.”

“Yes, she’s going to be every bit as pretty as Juliet. But I’m biased. I’m the proud Godmother. Since I’ve been back, I’ve been babysitting a lot, trying to give Juliet quiet time with the new baby, and give Rosie a chance to get to know her Auntie Camille again.”

“I see the influence. She’s charming. When she gets older, she’ll be a heartbreaker.” _like you_

Something in Richard’s voice made Camille look at him. 

“She told me the story of the enchanted cottage.”

“Oh.” Camille couldn’t bear the intensity of his gaze, so she looked down at the sand.

“It’s a lovely story.”

Camille couldn’t say anything. All of her energy was spent on remembering to breathe and trying not to cry. Richard reached out and took her hand in his. 

“Was the princess really in love with the bear?” 

She nodded.

“He didn’t turn out to be a very good prince.”

Camille’s head came up and she said, “Yes he did! He was wonderful! He was the best prince she’d ever …”

Richard shook his head. He reached up to stroke her cheek. “He was a coward, too afraid to risk telling her… And no sense of romance. Any prince worth his salt would have offered her a better castle than a caravan in Clacton.”

_Then tell me now! Offer me anything!_ “I put that in the story because you offered to take me there. The night of the storm, remember?”

“I remember,” Richard sighed. “Absolutely no sense of romance. A carvan? A prince who was worthy of her would have known that the most beautiful princess in the world deserved a palace in a romantic city like Paris or Rome or Venice—”

“Or London?”

Richard’s eyes widened. “Would you?”

Camille nodded and slipped her arms around his neck, “Anywhere.” She smiled and added, “Even a caravan in Clacton.”

As Richard closed the small distance left between them and kissed her, Camille began to think that, for all she had obsessed about that song, going back wasn’t the answer. It was time to move forward.


	9. Chapter 9

“Mmmmm,” Camille leaned back as Richard kissed his way down her neck and across her collarbone. “Ooh, ow!”

He lifted his head. “What’s wrong?”

“My back, leaning against the step.

“This isn’t the ideal place for this, is it? I don’t suppose the house is habitable?”

“No, too much damage. There are probably more creatures than you want to think about living in the mattress.”

“Ugh, that sounds very—”

“Unhygienic,” Camille finished the sentence for him. “And I suppose now is as good a time as any to tell you that I’m living with Maman. But you have a hotel room, right?”

“And two colleagues in rooms just down the hall. It might be awkward, but we—”

Richard’s phone rang. He looked at the caller ID. “Bother!”

“Poole.”

Pause

“Right. Confer without me. I met an old friend and lost track of time.”

Camille giggled, and Richard held his finger to his lips in a “shh” gesture.

“I’ll meet you in the bar in time to go to dinner with the Commissioner.”

Camille clapped her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing out loud.

“Right, see you later.”

“Sooo, I guess you have to go?' Camille buttoned her shirt. 

“Yes, um, dinner with the team and the Commissioner.”

“Ran into an old friend?” she said, laughing.

“What would you have me say, _sorry, but I was busy kissing my former DS_?”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Me, too. And if the house wasn’t boarded up, I’d have said _sorry, but I’m about to take the most beautiful woman on Saint Marie to bed, so go to dinner without me._ ”

Camille pouted, “I like your intention, but that isn’t much of a compliment. It’s a small island.”

“All right, then, most beautiful woman in the Caribbean. No, come to think of it, I believe I did say the most beautiful princess in the whole world.”

“Better. Do you have a spare key to your room?”

“No. And if I give you mine and say I lost it, they’ll void this first one when they program the second one.”

“All right, we can do this. You have to go back and change for dinner. I can run home and get a few things for overnight. I can walk into the hotel like this. It will look like I’m on my way back from the beach. If I’m quick, I can be there in time for you to let me in before you have to leave. Oh! I’ve just invited myself to stay. Sorry, I—”

Richard kissed her and said, “Of course you’re invited.” 

“Fantastic! We should hurry.” She got to her feet and started to walk to her car.

“Camille?”

“What?”

“Are you planning to call the Commissioner to ask where I’m staying?”

“Merde! After working undercover, I should be better at this assignation stuff. Which hotel?”

“The new resort down the hill from Government House. The Ocean Pearl. Room 275.”

“Race you there!” Camille took off running, and Richard watched her, remembering the time he’d chased her along the beach. If only he’d caught her then. Still, better late than never.

-o-o-o-o-

Richard was ready to leave for dinner when he heard the knock on his door. 

“Coming!”

A voice from the hallway said, “House detective. I found this woman loitering outside your room.”

He opened the door, and Camille stood there, laughing.

“You’re crazy!” he said, as she walked into the room.

“No, I’m happy! The happiest I’ve been in two years.”

Richard kissed her and said, “So am I. Did you have dinner? You can’t sign for room service, unfortunately. If it were a personal trip, I’d add you to my account, but the Met won’t look kindly on, um, you know…”

“I’ll be fine. I had a big barbecue lunch at the beach with Dwayne and the Best family. I’ve got a snack with me and a bottle of wine in case we want it later. Or I can raid the minibar. I told Maman I was babysitting Rosie and John and not to wait up for me.” She looked in the bathroom. “Ooh, bubble tub. I’ll have a soak, wash my hair. Watch a little TV in French. I’ll think over good memories until you get back.”

Richard groaned, “I don’t want to go.”

“You have to. Maybe he’ll take you to that seafood restaurant where everything has eyes.” She grinned wickedly and said, “Say hello to the Commissioner for me!”

-o-o-o-o-

Richard joined his colleagues just as Commissioner Patterson entered the lobby. Patterson greeted Richard warmly, and Richard introduced him to Donnelly and Harrington. 

As he drove, Patterson said, “I know that the other commissioners took you to dinner in the fanciest places and introduced you to senior staff. But we like to do things differently on Saint Marie. I want you to see the real Saint Marie and meet the team members who do the real work.”

Richard looked out the window of the car. They seemed to be driving to—no, please no.

Patterson continued, “So I’m not taking you to somewhere fancy, but somewhere very real, where you can get the best food. I’m sure Inspector Poole—ah, CHIEF Inspector Poole, congratulations, by the way—DCI Poole can vouch for the food.” He chuckled and added, “And the tea.”

_Ohhhh, God,_ Richard thought. _Awkward, soooo awkward._

Patterson parked near Catherine’s bar. When Catherine saw them arrive, she said, “Hello, Commissioner, I’ve set up a table for you away from…” her eyes widened. “Richard?”

“Hello, Catherine.”

Patterson beamed, “I didn’t tell anyone who the visitors were. I thought it would be fun, a lovely surprise reunion. Where is Camille?”

“She’s babysitting Rosie and John.”

“No she isn’t,” said Fidel, who had just arrived. Catherine looked confused, but was distracted when Fidel saw Richard and exclaimed “Chief! What are you doing here?”

Richard explained and introduced his colleagues. Then Dwayne arrived, and the explanation and introductions were repeated.

For Richard, the evening was an odd combination of _déjà vu_ and terror. He saw Catherine try to make a call, then frown at her phone. So Camille wasn’t answering. He could picture Camille soaking in the tub and not bothering to reach for her phone. He looked away quickly as Catherine turned toward him. He hoped he didn’t look too guilty.

“Chief?”

“Sorry, Dwayne, moment of distraction. It’s, um, well, you know, strange to be back here as a visitor.”

“I was telling them about the time you broke that case of identity theft. And the doctor made you watch surgery.”

Richard shuddered, “Scarred me for life, that did!”

Catherine handed out menus and said, “If I’d realized that the Commissioner’s VIPs were English, I’d have made roast beef and Yorkshire pudding.” 

The meal lasted longer than Richard wanted it to. He noticed that Catherine had tried a few more times to make a call. She was beginning to eye him suspiciously. He thought about excusing himself and calling or texting Camille, but then he realized he didn’t have her mobile number, and she probably wouldn’t answer the hotel phone. They definitely needed to improve their assignation skills. 

Finally, the Commissioner commented that it was getting late and that they all had work to do the next day. As they rose from the table, Catherine asked to speak to Richard. 

“You go on,” she said to the others. “I’ll call a taxi for Richard. We need to catch up on some local gossip.”

As soon as the others left, she dragged Richard up to her apartment over the bar. Before he could say anything, she lit into him.

“She’s waiting for you somewhere, isn’t she? You better be careful what you do, Richard. Camille is very vulnerable, almost fragile. She took a nasty undercover job to get away from here and get over you. Two years is a long time to be miserable. So don’t you dare hurt her any more than you already have. You’re going home in a few days, and then, what? If you care about her at all, you’ll—”

“Marry her,” he interrupted. He smiled as she sank onto the couch, speechless. “Catherine, my intentions are honorable. I’ve had a miserable two years, too, if that makes you feel any better. And the last thing I want to do is hurt Camille. Yes, she’s waiting for me at the hotel. This meal went on for longer than I expected, and I want to get back to her. I only saw her for a while this afternoon and a few minutes before I left for dinner. Hell, I’ve told _you_ I want to marry her before I asked _her._ So could you please call the taxi so I can rectify that situation?”

“I want grandchildren.”

Richard couldn’t stop himself. He said, “Well, if you’d call that taxi…”

“Richard!” Catherine tried to sound indignant, but gave up and laughed. Then she sighed, “I suppose I’ll have to go to England to see them?”

“Yes, sorry. She did offer to go, and…”

“I’m not surprised. She’s been unhappy here since she came back.”

“We’ll visit you, I promise.” He kissed Catherine on the cheek. “Call my taxi? Bon soir, Maman.”

-o-o-o-o-

Richard let himself into the hotel room. The room was dark except for one lamp on its lowest setting. Camille’s back was to him, but he could see that she was asleep. He stood for a few minutes, just looking at her. He started to get undressed, putting his shoes in the closet, hanging up his suit. He walked to the dresser and took out his pajamas. In the mirror over the dresser, he could see Camille sleeping, as she said she did, naked. He looked at the pajamas, shook his head, and tossed them back into the drawer. _Idiot!_

The bathroom smelled familiar. Camille’s perfume. He remembered it from times they were close together. The night they danced for five seconds, the night they were trapped together in the storm, the afternoon she hugged him when he left.

Richard slipped into bed without waking Camille. Should he wake her? He definitely wanted to. But should he? This was why he was bad at change. The newness, the things to figure out. But she was worth it. He kissed her shoulder, and she rolled toward him, murmuring his name in her sleep. She rested her head on his chest and sighed. 

Richard was just dropping off to sleep when he was jolted awake. Camille sat up in bed, looking around.

“Camille, are you all right? Camille!”

She gasped, then relaxed, “Ohhh, sorry. I sometimes wake up in the night and don’t recognize where I am.”

“Are you all right? Do you want to talk about it?”

Camille flopped onto the bed. “I’m all right, honestly. It’s just being in a strange bed. Once I know where I am, I’m fine. And you’re here. I mean, you are real, right? I’ve dreamed about you so often…”

Richard smiled, “I’m real. Shall I prove it to you?”

Later, when Camille was thoroughly convinced, she said, “If I’d known you were that good, I’d have followed you to London two years ago.”

“But you are following me to London now, right?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Because I already told your mother.”

“When?”

“After dinner. Guess where the Commissioner took us.”

“No!”

“Yes. Wait, it gets better. He invited Dwayne and Fidel,” Richard laughed as Camille groaned. He continued in an imitation of Commissioner Patterson, “I thought it would be fun, a lovely surprise reunion.”

“Oh, dear, so I guess that blew my babysitting cover.”

“Yes. And as the evening went on, your mother seemed to work it out. When everyone was leaving, she cornered me. She sent them on their way and said she’d call a taxi for me.”

“Oh, no, my poor Richard!”

“She is very protective of you. She pretty much told me that I had better be serious about you or stay the hell away from you. You’d have been proud of me. I actually was able to stop her in mid-rant.”

“How?”

“I told her I intend to marry you.”

“What did she say to that?”

“I’m more interested in what _you_ have to say to that.”

“Is that a proposal?”

“I suppose it is, sorry, not a very good one. I—”

“Yes! Absolutely, yes! Now tell—”

Richard kissed her and they celebrated their engagement. 

“Oh, yes,” sighed Camille as she snuggled up to Richard.

“Yes to what?”

“You, marriage, London, everything. Now tell me what Maman said when you told her.”

Richard chuckled, “She said she wants grandchildren.”

“THAT was the first thing she said?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, mon Dieu! What did you say?”

“I was feeling a bit brazen, so I told her to call that taxi and I’d get started on it.”

“Richard! You didn’t!”

“I might have. I mean we could have. We didn’t, um…”

“Oh! I hadn’t thought about that. I guess we could have. But I meant I can’t believe you said that to my mother.”

“I did. She was amused. And she made that call quickly. Now, tell me. How soon can you and Maman organize a wedding?”

Camille turned her head to look at the bedside clock. “Father Roget is probably sleeping at this hour…”

“Seriously, Camille, is that enough? I know that a lot of women dream of a big wedding with all the trimmings. I don’t want you to regret anything.”

“The only thing I regret is not following you to London two years ago. I let you leave Saint Marie without me once. I’m not fool enough to let that happen again.” She kissed him and smiled sadly. “I had to go so far without you…”

“What?”

“It’s a line from a song.”

“I know that song. I heard it a while ago. It’s haunted me ever since.”

“No more hauntings, no more regrets. Unless—what about your parents? Can they get here in time for a wedding?”

“Unlikely, but that’s all right. I don’t have to ask their permission, or ask Dad for my great-great-grandmother’s heirloom wedding ring, because there isn’t one. Oh, I was probably supposed to have an engagement ring to give you. Isn’t that the done thing?”

“That’s all right. We’ll have wedding rings soon enough.”

“Oh! But I do have an engagement gift for you.” Richard dug into his briefcase and pulled out a small box.

“When did you find time to buy me a gift?”

“I bought it in the Bahamas. I was buying a souvenir, and I saw this. Erzulie made me buy it.”

“Erzulie? Since when did you believe in Erzulie?”

“Since I fell in love with you.”


	10. Chapter 10

Richard was able to add one week of holiday time after the meetings on Saint Marie. The night before his colleagues left, they, Dwayne, and Fidel took Richard out for a stag night. Not surprisingly, the one with the worst hangover the next day was Dwayne.

A few days later, Richard and Camille were married on the veranda of the enchanted cottage. Camille didn’t mind that there had been too little time to get a formal wedding gown. She wore a white sundress that she’d bought in the market. It was embroidered in shades of blue that matched the Larimar pendant Richard had given her for an engagement present. She wore the earrings, too. She’d laughed when Richard tripped all over his tongue, trying to explain why he had bought a gift for another woman. In return for his embarrassment, she’d promised to help him buy a replacement souvenir for Peggie.

Rosie was thrilled to be the flower girl at the fairytale wedding. Catherine and Juliet put together a beach picnic of feast proportions. The Commissioner gave the bride away. Fidel was best man, as Richard felt that the name was an omen. Dwayne was happy to not be best man, as he claimed not to believe in marriage and didn’t want to help hogtie his fellow man.

As they stood in front of the priest, Richard looked at the bouquet Camille held. She had nestled a little plastic lizard among the orchids. Richard smiled. She hadn’t been able to tell him much about her undercover assignment, but she had told him that the little toy had been her good luck charm and the only part of her undercover assignment she’d taken with her. They hadn’t seen Harry again, so the plastic lizard served as a stand-in for the lizard wizard. After the ceremony, Richard would suggest they give the lizard to Rosie. After all, it was Rosie and the lizard wizard who got them together again.

Richard had trouble paying attention to the priest, as his mind kept wandering over memories of Saint Marie and Camille. He realized that the year he had spent on Saint Marie would probably not always be his favorite year. As he slid the ring onto Camille’s finger, he knew that there would be many more favorite years to come.


End file.
